High Stakes
by stress
Summary: A comb.  A ribbon.  An old tooth.  The pot might not look like much but, trust me, the stakes have never been higher.  An unofficial follow-up to Last Night, this is one poker game they'll never forget.
1. a newsboy's game

******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**High Stakes**

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An unofficial follow-up to _Last Night_.

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A word or two about poker—

Poker is a newsboy's game and for the obvious reason that a newsboy and his newsboy chums can always find a penny or something even more worthwhile to play for; that, and most newsies have—or know where to get their hands on—an old battered deck of cards at a moment's notice. It is a simple vice, no worse than gambling with dice, cheaper than buying nickel whiskey from a stout bartender, longer-lasting than a cigarette that was more paper than tobacco these days.

The rules are simple, and some were even made up as they went along. But the end was always the same: whoever wins the pot is king for a day, boasting and bragging and shaking his winnings underneath the losers' noses. Even the youngest street rat would play if he could afford the buy-in and it's the dear wish of many to throw down a winning hand if only to thumb up their own noses at the older boys. Poker—it's all about the bragging rights and honor, a way to while away the time, hoping you came out on top.

(In the dark and seedy underbelly of New York, there was only one way to go anyway and that was up. The newsboys of the city, despite their minor success of late and their infamous strike, they couldn't get any lower.)

Most of the newsboys' games take place in the lodging house rooms; back alleys were always an option when the rooms were full or the Children's Aid Society biddies came around for a visit with their prim manners and pursed expressions. Crates for seats, an old, three-legged table, barely enough light to read the cards, that's the newsboy's game all right and it would take place in any of the nooks and crannies the newsies thought they owned. Most of the games, that is, except for the real important ones.

And those… those took place wherever you could find Tooth Donnelly. _If_ you could find Tooth Donnelly.

(Just because poker was a newsboy's game, it didn't mean you had to be a newsboy to play it.)


	2. one, two, three signs

******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**High Stakes**

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An unofficial follow-up to _Last Night_.

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The night Mush Meyers first met Tooth Donnelly was the first night Mush saw Racetrack Higgins before he smelt him.

(Looking back on it later, he realized that that was the first sign that something was wrong.)

There was no acrid smoke covering the short newsie from a stolen cigar already half-spent by the time Race got his stubby fingers on it, no dirt-grey cloud hovering just over his head, no stink from Sheepshead Races clinging to an old plaid vest that was due for a wash. In fact, the air was almost pleasant for a muggy August evening, and not even Race's agitated entrance broke up the peace.

Even if it did catch Mush's wandering attention. And, due to a nudge to his side courtesy of Mush's pointed elbow, Kid Blink's attention next.

Mush and Blink were on guard duty that night and, truth be told, both of them were looking for an excuse to do anything except stare aimlessly down two sides of an empty street, making idle small-talk and wishing they were anywhere else: at Irving Hall to take in a show, or maybe down at Tibby's for a swig of sarsaparilla. But they weren't and, for at least a couple hours or more, it was their turn to stand at the back entrance to No. 9 Duane Street and make sure nobody got inside the Newsboys Lodging House that didn't belong there.

It had been a couple of weeks since the summer strike ended but the newsies weren't taking any chances. They were the closest lodging house to Newspaper Row and none of them could forget the way that chain-wielding gang came at them when they first stopped selling their papers. There hadn't been hide nor hair of the rotten Delanceys or their stinking Uncle Weas since July and, if the newsies had anything to say about it, they would keep it that way. But just in case, the older boys thought it would be smart to watch out for any of Pulitzer's hired men, bent on revenge against the working kids of New York. Because, pointed out Cowboy, getting revenge would've been the first thing half of them thought of if the shoe was on the other foot.

Jack Kelly and his good ideas, Blink had moaned one night on guard duty when they had the poor misfortune to be out during a late summer shower. Mush, too kindhearted to understand anything even close to resembling sarcasm, readily agreed with Blink about Jack, even if he spent that particular turn at guarding wishing there was an overhang for them to hide out underneath.

But that particular night was clear, even if the humidity did funny things to Mush's dark curls, and neither boy had any complaint save for that guard duty for what seemed like the millionth time now was probably the most boring thing they could be doing. The elbow in his side provided some distraction and for that, Blink didn't even bother hitting his best pal back in warning for the cheap, unexpected jab. Besides, Mush didn't know his own strength after all and it only took Blink a couple of seconds to get his breath back.

When he had, he followed the direction Mush was staring in. And, just like Mush, Kid Blink saw Racetrack Higgins walking hurriedly towards them, his hands jammed in his pockets, an unlit cigar sticking out of the corner of Race's closed mouth.

(Racetrack Higgins with an unlit cigar and a mouth that wasn't moving? That was the _second_ sign that something was wrong.)

"Hey, Race?" Kid Blink called. "Racetrack, buddy, what's the matter?"

It was clear that something _was_ the matter. While Race moved faster than you would expect for a guy with such short legs, there was something in his awkward strut that made Mush think Race was almost dragging his heels. Then there was the way he gave a start at Blink's loud holler. Despite Mush and Blink noticing him, it seemed as if Race had no idea that anyone was hanging around the back of the lodging house. How could he have forgotten? Race complained about guard duty even more than Skittery did!

He recovered nicely though, making a bee-line straight towards the other two boys as if he'd been aiming for them all along. When he reached them he removed the unlit cigar from his mouth and, despite the fact that it wasn't lit and had produced no ash, gave it an anxious flick as he demanded, "Where's Cowboy? Where's Jack?"

Mush and Blink looked at each other and agreed, without saying a single word, that Race must be off his head or something, asking such a silly question as that. Still, they took pity on their poor friend.

Or, at least, Mush did.

"He's gone to the same place he goes every night," he said helpfully as Race shook his head slowly, coming to the same conclusion just as Mush went on to add: "He went to Davey's place for supper."

"And to hold hands with Sarah under the table," Blink added with a chuckle. Even with only one good eye—his left one covered as always by a brown patch—Blink managed a sly look that, if Race hadn't been acting so antsy, would've surely earned him a wise-cracking grin in return.

But it didn't, and Kid Blink found himself repeating after an awkward pause, "Here, Race, c'mon. What's the matter? Me and Mush, we can help ya just as much as Cowboy could."

"Yeah," agreed Mush.

Race stuck his unlit cigar between his lips. He still hadn't noticed it was unlit, and it looked more like a piece of jerky than a smoke. "Alright, then," he mumbled around the cigar, shoving his hands back in his pockets, "either one of ya fellas willin' to spot me lodgin' fare?"

And suddenly Blink was thinking Race waiting for Jack to come around was a better idea than he first thought. He waved his hand and shook his head. "What happened to your money, Race?" he asked, none too obviously changing the subject.

Squinting his good eye, Blink looked Race over, taking in his long face, the way the cigar seemed to mold itself into the corner of Race's frown, the way his hat was jammed down on his head so that his hair was hidden and almost his ears, too. Race's shoulders were slumped, his fingers restlessly tapping against his dusty old trousers, and Blink had a pretty good idea what had happened.

"Let me guess: your horse come in last? You make a bad wager or somethin'?"

"You could say that," Race muttered, chewing on the stub of his cigar now. "I got suckered into a poker game I should've won."

And that, right there, was more than enough of an answer to any of Blink's questions. Mush nodded to himself, too. If nothing else, it certainly explained Race's poor temper.

Because, you see, Race liked to think of himself as a gambler, but where was the gamble if he never won? Any horse he picked for first threw a shoe or came up lame or if they even made it out of the starting gate, limped to the finish line, dead last. His poker face was terrible because he wanted it too damn much. If he threw dice, they always came up one number shy, without fail. Hell, if he tossed a coin and called it, there was a better chance it would land on its edge over falling onto the side Race called for.

He liked to think of himself as a gambler, but his fellow newsies and pals secretly just though he was an inherent loser. Except for Mush. Mush Meyers had a brighter outlook, figuring that Race had to win _sometime_.

Just, it seemed, not that night.

"Who'd you play?" Mush asked, curious. With him and Blink guarding and Jack out at the Jacobs, he couldn't figure who Race could've played—and lost to—that badly.

Race's eyes dropped to the dirt as he made his admission: "Tooth Donnelly."

Kid Blink groaned, a sympathetic noise that told Racetrack just how dumb of an idea that was, playing poker with a fella like Tooth.

But Mush had never heard of Tooth Donnelly and he asked both innocently now and to the others' surprise: "Who's he?"

"Who's he? Don't ya know nothin', Mush?" Race shook his head, and if it wasn't for how crummy he felt, there would've been a playful slap to Mush's cheek for such a question.

(And that, perhaps, was the third sign that something wasn't right.)

"I don't know who Tooth Donnelly is," shrugged Mush apologetically.

It was Blink's turn to take pity on his pal. Mush always looked like a puppy that'd been kicked one too many times whenever anyone reminded him that there were things he didn't know and Blink usually took it upon himself to turn that frown upside down again if he could.

"He's the best poker player in New York," Blink said simply, as if that was all anyone needed to know about Tooth Donelly. "You can beat him, you can beat anyone." He then turned to look back at Race. "See, now, _I_ heard of Tooth. What else did you lose, Race?"

Racetrack mumbled out a reply that neither Blink nor Mush could barely hear.

"What's that?"

Race's answer was like himself at the moment: short and testy. "I said my comb, alright!"

"He took your money _and_ your comb?" Mush asked, frowning; Blink, on the other hand, was trying to stifle a sudden attack of the chuckles. "That doesn't seem fair."

Race refused to look over at Blink until he got his amusement under control. Only then, when all that remained was Blink's lopsided grin, did he explain: "Tooth Donnelly doesn't play fair. He plays for everything you want and he always wins, damn it! I just wish I knew how." Racetrack looked more dejected that either of the other two boys had ever seen him. They thought it was because he lost his money—because he lost _at all_, which meant he wasn't half the gambler he imagined himself to be—until Race went on to add, "And it was my lucky comb, too."

Kid Blink clapped Race on his shoulder, trying hard to suppress his laughter again and failing miserably this time. "I guess it wasn't so lucky, was it?"

Nowhere near amused, Race shook Blink's hand off his shoulder before pulling his hands out of his pockets—and with his right one, an old, dented brass pocket watch. He flipped the lid open and lifted it up so that he could use the flickering light of the gas lamp to read the time.

Scowling, he put the watch away. "Shouldn't Jack be back by now?"

In response to Race's comment, Mush reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. His lips moved as he counted it silently, then he plucked a single tarnished nickel from amid the pile of coppers and held it out to Race. "Here. Take it. I'll cover your fare tonight."

Race accepted the nickel eagerly and slipped it into his pocket. But, to Mush's surprise—if maybe not Blink's, who knew Race well enough by now—he didn't make to go inside the lodging house to pay Kloppman for the night or even say thanks or nothing. Instead, pulling out his pocket watch again and glancing at it before stowing it in the same pocket housing Mush's nickel, Race turned to look behind him as if he expected Jack to saunter up any minute now.

There was no sign of Jack heading their way, though, no sign of anyone really and Racetrack Higgins sighed in barely masked frustration.

"It's not just the fare, though I 'ppreciate it, Mush." Race sure appreciated it because, not only did he make no move to go in for the night, but he wasn't about to hand the nickel back, either. Instead, as he continued doggedly to watch out for Jack, he said, "It's my comb. I really got to get it back. There's a race tomorrow, I got two on Hanover and—" Here Race finally realized his cigar was unlit but, rather than go searching for a match, he threw the cigar down and started to pace back and forth, facing the other two boys now "—I gotta have my lucky comb."

Mush was still trying to see the bright side. His brow furrowed for the moment as he thought it over, relaxing as a pleased grin split his lips. He'd found a solution. "Well, then, why don't you take that nickel I gave ya and see if he'll play you another game. I know your comb's gotta be worth more than five cents, but maybe this Tooth fella doesn't."

Race's eyes lit up before they went dark again, like a candle being snuffed out. His shoulders sagged—he looked shorter than ever. "I wish I could, but he won't play me again, so that's why I thought Jack… you know how charmin' he can be. I thought he'd play for me and win my comb back." He checked behind him again and huffed; there was still no sign of Jack. "I guess he's too busy makin' eyes at Davey's sister to be willin' to help a pal out."

"I'll play for you," offered Mush immediately.

Racetrack's head turned back around, meeting Blink's knowing gaze. The two of them exchanged a look.

The thing was this: poker was a newsboy's game. When the papers were sold—or sold back, thanks to the success of the strike—when the night opened up on endless possibilities, most of the boys could be found sitting around a pot of pennies and, one remarkable time, a brass button. It was a way for them to unwind, a friendly round of poker where individual hands meant nothing to the overall rhythm of the game.

And in the broad scheme of the game, Mush Meyers was quite possibly one of the worst players Duane Street had ever seen. For one thing, he couldn't lie. For another, he didn't understand it when the other boys lied, even when Blink explained more than once it was called bluffing. He was hurt when he lost, so the other boys would go out of their way to lose instead. In the end, they decided it would be best for the rest of them if Mush was allowed to watch but never, ever play.

After a moment, one moment when Mush was blissfully unaware of the silent conversation passing between his two friends, Kid Blink cleared his throat and laid a kind and easy hand lightly on Mush's arm. "Maybe I should be the one to give it a try."

(Now _that_ Mush wasn't all that surprised to hear.)

"I can still come, though, can't I?"

Neither Blink nor Race—who was already brightening considerably now that Blink was willing to take the chance for him—neither one of them had the heart to tell him it would be better for all of them if he stayed behind. Then again, neither one of them knew.

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**End Note**: This, as noted up top, will be an unofficial follow-up to _Last Night,_ by which I mean this takes place after the strike and after Mush met Polly - which also means that Polly will be an important part of this story :) It's not necessary to have read that one-shot to understand this chaptered fic, but there will be a few mentions to it that will make this story a little more interesting, I guess. Also, I re-did the first chapter a bit and split it into two chapters - I wasn't entirely happy having the first two bits combined and I fixed it. I hope there's no confusion, but I think it flows better (and I did add a little bit more to this chapter that the first release missed!)

This fic will be maybe 5-7 chapters long and will introduce a few OC's that I've had a ball dreaming up. I haven't written a multi-chapter Mush-centric fic in ages and I thought it was his turn, especially since neither he nor Blink had a role in _Five_; Race, on the other hand, got such the short end of the stick in _Five_, I decided to use him in this story. Of course, as you can already see, he doesn't really fare that much better, eh :)

Please let me know what you think so far! Next chapter to follow soon.

- _stress. 01.24.11_


	3. i'll show you mine

******Disclaimer**: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

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**High Stakes**

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An unofficial follow-up to _Last Night_.

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After Mush ran inside and grabbed Skittery and Snitch to take over watching the back entrance to the lodging house, it was time to go. Race was itching to win his comb back, even if Kid Blink had to be the one to do it. If Tooth Donnelly wouldn't let him play, it didn't matter to Racetrack so long as his lucky comb was in his pocket and Tooth's cocky smirk was buttoned shut.

(Mush would've tried again to insist he could play too, but persuading Skittery to guard out of turn took longer than he thought it would. By the time he came back, Blink and Race set their plan and the only pace in it for Mush was as company—and the added muscle.)

It seemed like the perfect idea, too. Blink had a poker face to die for because, as Race put it in only the way he could, no one ever knew what it was Blink kept hidden behind his eyes because they were too busy gawping at his patch. That, and Blink grinned that crooked, lopsided grin of his so damn often, it didn't matter if he had a flush or a queen high, Blink looked goofy no matter what. You could never tell and most boys didn't. Blink won more back alley games than all the others.

But, you see, Kid Blink, as easy going as any of his fellow newsies, he took his poker very seriously. There was no sign of his familiar grin as Race—being Race—kept egging him on and it took Blink threatening to forget about it and go back to guarding for it to sink into Race's thick head that maybe, if he wanted his comb back as much as he said, he should stop running his mouth like that.

Race made the smart choice: he shut up.

(The quiet didn't last very long.)

As he led the way, in considerably higher spirits than earlier since there was a slight chance he might get his comb back, Race started up again and—rather than pick on Blink—he spent the walk telling his pals all he knew about Tooth Donnelly. The first thing being how Tooth never stayed in the same place for too long, the second how he never played more than one fella at a time, the third was that he never, ever lost. Tooth was a legend in the gambler's circuit, and his legend spread far enough that even Kid Blink knew all about the sort of game Tooth played.

Mush wondered why he didn't know, but figured it had to do with the fact he never seemed allowed to play cards with the other guys anymore. Besides, you learned something new every day. One day it's that Jack likes to sleep on his back and make funny jokes in the morning; another it's that, at quick glance, there's not much difference between a copper penny and a brass button. And now he knew that a kid called Tooth was a real card shark.

He still didn't understand why Race bet his lucky comb of all things—or why, considering Mush knew the comb and knew that it was old, cracked and missing teeth—and, waiting until Race finally stopped talking, he asked about it.

(It probably wasn't the best thing to ask about.)

Race's cheeks puffed out until he resembled not a short Irish gambler but an oversized chipmunk, like the ones you get over at Central Park in the spring; when he breathed out, it sounded like a squeak which didn't help Mush with the picture of a rodent he had in his head. "I didn't want to bet my comb but Tooth… he's got a… a—"

"Knack," supplied Blink.

"A knack… thanks, Blink… Tooth's got a real knack at knowing just what a fella prizes most in the world and the game ain't over 'til he has it. You can lose all your dough but that don't mean nothin' to Tooth. Y'know," Race added bitterly, "it ain't even about the money to him. Bum took my comb because then it wouldn't be mine no more."

And that's all he said. Mush didn't realize until much later that for all the talking he did about Tooth Donnelly and his game, Race never once explained how he got in on it in the first place. Mush knew better than to ask this time.

That ended the conversation. Blink was already focusing on the upcoming poker game, Race was stewing over the loss of his lucky comb and Mush was just beginning to catch on to the fact that since he'd gotten out of guard duty for the rest of the night, there might be some time to pop on over to see Polly.

It had been two days since he'd seen her last and it was only his promise that he wouldn't come back until Friday morning that kept him from visiting her. The nasty cough she tried so hard to hide had flared up a bit; she'd been laid up since Tuesday night and, when she sent him away, she got his word that he wouldn't come back for a few days unless she sent one of her boys to see him first. It wouldn't have been too much harder to wait since he and Blink had guard duty Thursday night but without the long night ahead of him… well, it wouldn't hurt to check up on her a little earlier than she expected.

(Unless Simon was in for the night—then it might just hurt a little. Simon had a wild fist and Mush wouldn't dare strike against Polly's brother in return.)

At first Mush didn't know what put the idea of Polly in his head. He'd spent Wednesday morning worrying so much over her that Blink threatened to sew his lips shut if he mentioned her again. As such, Mush got into the habit of "forgetting" about Polly when Blink was around and she wasn't. And that's when he noticed that Race was leading them right up to a small corner shop with boarded-up windows and a makeshift door like the one that covered the entrance to Polly and the other orphans' hideaway. In fact, Mush had to look twice to make sure he hadn't gone the way to visit Polly first, it was so similar.

(It wasn't, of course… still, it was spooky.)

The shop was one that was once called O'Malley's and it was familiar, too, in a way Mush couldn't quite remember. There was a hand-carved, hand-painted sign hanging overhead; it was faded and old and once chain had rusted and broken so that it was tilted to one side. Wood covered the windows, a thick piece of rotted wood served as a door and it was that door that Race marched up to it.

"Here," Race told the other two boys quietly, "let me do the talkin'." Then, rapping his knuckles against the makeshift door, he called out, "I'm willin' to pay."

"Don't you mean play?" whispered Mush.

"I wish," Race muttered out of the side of his mouth.

There was a pause and, for the moment, Mush wondered if Race had gotten the wrong place or if no one was in. Then, just when it seemed that the game might've been moved already, a very steady, very calm, very plain voice answered:

"Come in and bring nothing that you can't afford."

Mush turned and met Blink's eye. Blink shrugged, his easy grin at home on his face. Race was already moving aside the rotted piece of wood, cursing under his breath and sucking on his thumb when he got a splinter. Mush hurried to help him, lifting the door without any trouble, revealed a dark hole that led inside.

Racetrack went in first, accustomed to the strange set-up. Blink shrugged again and, despite having known about Tooth Donnelly before that night, he didn't seem to have been expected this. Mush certainly hadn't and, again, he was reminded of the first time he followed Polly into the rooms where she stayed. Whatever happened to good old, sturdy lodging houses?

Trying to be polite, Mush made sure to replace the door after he slipped inside. It seemed the right thing to do, even if the darkness seemed to become pitch.

(The darkness didn't last, either.)

As soon as the makeshift door was in place again and the three Manhattan newsies had grouped together, there was a spark, then another and two small flames erupted from nowhere. It was such a sudden flare-up that such a small bubble of fire stunned them and blinded them and it took a moment for Mush to realize that a pair of struck matches were held in opposite hands.

Four long, thin candles were fastened to the wall and a dark-haired figure with his back to the others busied himself with lighting the old yellow, drippy wax strips. With two quick flicks, the matches were shaken out and he reached for the tallest of the candles. Then, turning around, Mush Meyers got his first look at this master poker player.

He crossed on arm in front of a thin chest, the other held the candle up beneath his chin. His dark green eyes sparkling in the candlelight—or sparkling with something like amusement.

Tooth Donnelly was Irish from his name to the light-colored freckles that dusted his fair nose to the greasy black hair he wore slicked back like the sort of cheap dandy he thought he was. It was hot in this small room and it was obvious from his dress: the shirt he wore had straps thinner than the dusty green suspenders he kept slung over his shoulders.

When he grinned, and Tooth Donnelly grinned often like the world was his own personal joke, it was easy to see where he got his nickname from. There, right up front, he was missing one of his teeth. Not a front one, but one of the canines; only a dark hole remained where the pointy fang should've been.

Tooth reached down and placed his candle in a small wooden stand chipped and hewn and covered in wax droppings that was set up in the center of a round table surrounded with only two chairs. Then he crossed both arms over his chest and looked over at Race knowingly.

"Ah, Higgins, back so soon?"

Mush thought he might've lisped or something, given the fact he was missing his tooth, but if he did, it was hard to tell. Tooth had such a thick Irish brogue, a slight lisp or a hiss was swallowed up and hidden in the Old World accent. It took all Mush had just to understand what the other boy had said and, deep down, he wondered if it wasn't as genuine as Tooth pretended.

(Because it certainly wasn't the voice that called for them to enter.)

Race, meanwhile, didn't seem to have any trouble understanding what the other boy said. He answered Tooth, and when he answered, his own New York accent seemed almost exaggerated in comparison—and Mush knew for sure that _that_ accent was surely real.

"I've brought some pals with me, Tooth," Race said, gesturing to his right, then his left, though his eyes never strayed from Tooth. "This here is Kid Blink and this is Mush. It's Blink whose gonna play you this time."

Kid Blink took a jolly step forward, obviously aiming to take the seat opposite of the one Tooth had been sitting in, but he froze after one step. Mush felt his brow furrow, confused and uncertain, until a shadow in the dark corner seemed to move once, twice, flickering in the backdrop of the farthest candle's flame before slipping out of the darkness and appearing as a young man and not the phantom Mush had suddenly feared.

He wasn't dark like the shadows; in fact, he was just the opposite. His skin was pale, almost translucent it was so white, and his hair was a vivid shock of orange cut uneven and short. The rest of him was unremarkable—a dark grey shirt, darker trousers, and cracked boots that kept him hidden in the dark corner—except for one thing: he wore an old, dirty rag over his left eye. It was tied like a bandana, wrapped under one ear and over the other, a makeshift patch.

His good eye, sly and shifty as it was, lit up when he saw the fancy brown patch Blink was wearing. One crooked finger played with the edge of his dirty rag. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Joe…" Tooth cut in warningly. The other boy heaved a sigh but stopped what he was doing; Tooth ignored the sigh, waving one hand absently at his side. His glittering green eyes never left his guests. "This is my pal Joey Gin."

"Or you could call me Gin Bottle Joey on account of how my eye got like this—" And once again Joey started to raise his hand. He managed to lift the bottommost part of his eye-covering, revealing a criss-cross of jagged lines, once-bloody lines, purple scars.

"Joey!"

His hand fell, to the relief of the other boys. Even Blink, who was the only one who knew what it looked like under his own patch, felt a little queasy at the sight Joey Gin kept hidden under the dirty rag.

"Pay him no mind," Tooth said smoothly. "For all that matters to you, he isn't even here."

(And Mush wondered who else wasn't there like Joey Gin, since Joey Gin's voice wasn't the voice he heard, either.)

There was a hypnotizing lilt to his voice despite the thick accent and, at a word, Joey Gin was forgotten; their every attention was on Tooth Donnelly and the slick and flicking movement of his wrists. Maybe it was sleight of hand, maybe they hadn't been paying proper attention, maybe _it was magic_—because everything about Tooth was theatrical and magical—but suddenly there was a deck of cards nestled in Tooth's palm as if they'd been there all along.

The cards were loose, yet they seemed molded to fit every crevice of his hand. In turn, he handled them expertly, flipping them from one side to the next, flopping the cards and tossing them and never, ever dropping a single one. Tooth was still watching the Manhattan newsies with that same strange look in his eyes, but he didn't need to watch the cards to make them do what he wanted. The battered, old deck obeyed him like they were a pup and Tooth Donnelly the master.

"So you want to play me, do you?" Tooth asked, standing in front of his candles until the yellow light seemed to surround him like a halo. "Why in the world would you want to do a silly thing like that?"

"I want to win back Race's comb for him."

Tooth appeared to be thinking that over for a moment. "But you'll play for your own stakes?"

"Of course," answered Blink.

"Take a seat."

As if on cue, Joey Gin moved away from the table; he didn't go back to the darkest corners of the room but, instead, took his place right behind the wooden chair that Tooth had taken first. Blink took the one on the other side of the table and, since there was only two chairs, Mush and Race stayed where they were.

Tooth gathered his cards together but kept them cupped in his left hand, rubbing his thumb along the edge, fanning them out absently as they made a fast, slapping sound. Meanwhile, all eyes on him, Tooth reached underneath his table with his right hand and, when he straightened up in his seat, he was also holding a box. With a _thwack_, he let it settled on the tabletop in front of him.

It was a box no bigger than the type of box that a rich fella might keep his cigars in. It was wooden, of course, because almost everything in Tooth's room seemed to be made of wood, and it was certainly deep. Odds and ends were tossed inside—from his place, Mush could see a small ragdoll, a handful of marbles, a few scraps of paper, and a tin harmonica—and Tooth took his time rooting around until he let out a short whistle. There, in his hand, was Race's comb.

"One man's treasure for another's," Tooth purred, placing the comb alongside the candleholder's base. "What can you put up?"

"I wouldn't mind it if ya put your patch up," offered Joey from his place behind Tooth.

Kid Blink wasn't grinning anymore. "I got somethin', don't ya worry."

And he managed to say that with such determination that Tooth didn't even ask to see what it was first. Instead, jerking his chin up over at Mush and Race, he placed his cards lightly on the table opposite of Race's comb and gestured purposely at the back of the door. "We'll be playin' now, so, you see, that means the two of you should be leavin'."

Race nodded and turned to leave but Mush stayed where he was standing. He didn't understand. "We have to leave?"

"Aye."

Tooth had picked his cards up again; he couldn't bear to be separated from them for too long. Like a waterfall, they fell from his top hand to his palm waiting below. Race was mesmerized, watching as each card laid neatly on top of its brother, but Mush wouldn't be deterred.

"What about him?" he asked, pointing at Joey Gin.

"He stays. Them's the rules."

"Whose?"

"Mine," Tooth answered simply. "Unless you won't be wantin' your comb back?"

Race reached out and placed a stubby hand on Mush's shoulder. "It's how he plays. Come on, Blink'll be fine."

"Blink?"

Kid Blink's jaw was set, his good eye watching the cards in Tooth's hands. There still wasn't any sign of his characteristic grin as he called behind him: "Go with Race, Mush. I'll meet you outside when I've won."

It didn't feel right, but Blink told him to go and, besides, Mush was the sort of fellow to follow when being led. And, as Race carefully steered him out back the way they came, he didn't argue again and he didn't fuss—he just went where Racetrack wanted him to go.

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**End Note**: And there's part two - we finally got to meet Tooth and his sidekick and we see a little bit about Mush and Polly's relationship (like it's real, for a start). I'm really trying to focus on characterization here as well as plot, and I hope that's coming across. Part three coming soon!

Also, I'd like to give a very special thank you to MissThursday for taking the time to review this story! I really appreciate it :)

- _stress. 01.29.11_


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